Never A Prettier Spring
by Holly go lightly1
Summary: When the Giver left, the community was left with a great deal of self-exploration to do. What's this? Lily a hermit? Asher a recluse? What has happen? Is it all right? Fiona thinks so.


*Lois Lowery owns _The Giver_. So what? I own the _Josie and the Pussycat's _soundtrack. We're all different. 

Fiona remembered it well. How apprehensive she was that listless day in January when the Old Receiver of Memories had assembled the whole of the community, including the laborers (a rarity in actions), for a discussion. It was her first experience in seeing the community in entirety together in a single area: the Committee of Elders and the Chief Elder (the latter of which was looking most boggled and anxious) mingling with the Twos and residents of the House of the Old. Most bizarre.

The Receiver divulged that Jonas was no longer present in the community and that there would be no return of him ever again, though there had been no release. His actions had been performed out of selflessness and great gallantry, and that his contribution to them was to be highly revered.

They were stunned to muteness. 

The contribution, the Receiver went on to explain in the course of no less than four hours, was in the behalf of their souls and salvation. He spoke of how they had learned to turn a dull, indifferent eye to life: a high injustice and felony on their parts as humans, which they barely were. The Receiver then spoke of how there would be a _change_ in their society, in their actions and lives, but it would have to begin with _them_. The Committee of Elders had been retired and they were starting at square one of their society, a society for them alone to determine.

The Receiver spoke of his memories and the significance of each one, whether it be of war, poverty, or a fractured collar bone. He referred each one to the color hazel: a splash of good in each one, a splash of bad, and a splash of hope. And like the color hazel, one could perceive it in any manner that they liked, but it was up to that person to decide and them alone.

He was to present each one of them with a memory to expand and nurture. He clarified that their society would function solely on how they perceived each memory, whether we drew bitterness or great merriment from each memory. He then exhibited an oblong device in his withered fingers, a frequent article in Elsewhere that he'd studied: a suggestion box. This box was to be posted outside the Annex and any member of the community who had an idea concerning how the community should be run should write his thought on a slip of paper and dispose of it there where it would be carried out if seconded by another member of the community.

After a fleeting oration from the Chief Elder concerning how thankful they all ought to be for the box, an oration in which Fiona was so nonplussed that she nearly staggered about the hall, the Receiver called each member up by name to present him with a memory, starting with the youngest of the community. He'd clap his palm on their backs, hold it fast for a moment, and release the member, watching him stumble about for a moment before turning attention to the next.

And in such a manner, all received their memories.

And for the longest time, no one dared brush a finger against the lid of the suggestion box and life went on, more or less, in the same fashion, save that (in Fiona's mind) this state of anarchy in which there was no Committee seemed highly chaotic and traumatic. She now had little left to cling to, save her occupation at the House of the Old. And she abstained from examining her memory with high militancy, as many did in the community. But it was at night, in her fleeting solitude, that the memory crept within the stubborn crevices of her mind and waited.....

Everyone spoke with humor of each others memories, often with great bamboozlement or exasperation, for nearly all found this a highly futile process of forming a government. Fiona's own memory was that of a walk in the park ("What nonsense," Jonas's Father had clucked.); Asher's was of babysitting a neighbor's child for an afternoon ("Who would lend their child out of their own care?" Lily had mused in a scoff.); Lily was presented with the memory of learning to play a piano ("What's to be learned about a society from plunking away on a noisy device?" Fiona had sneered.); Mother's memory was of baking a cake with her mother at the age of four ("That's utter uselessness," Asher had sighed.); and Father had the memory of being sick with a cold ("How traumatic," he had remarked nastily.).

But within a month, strange occurrences within the community began to occur.

Fiona had been reported not wanting to leave the House of the Old until she had checked for an eighth time that every single member there was soundly slumbering in peace. The reason? While briefly examining her memory of a park, she'd stumbled across an old man curled up against the cold on a splintered old bench, flinching against the wind. It had so startled her that no one would care for a man so old and leave him there to shudder alone and in great discomfort.

Asher had reportedly snapped at a child during his own occupation, sighing to another that his frustration had been called upon by his memory, in which the child he watched had refused to eat the lunch that he'd painstakingly prepared. For days after, buoyant Asher was rather peevish with the smaller ones.

Lily had refused to complete her lessons in school, pleading her boredom and feeling of utter hopelessness that had been heightened by her own memory. In it, she'd practiced the scales of her piano diligently, making the noise she was accustomed to hearing over and over. Then, she'd heard...music. Music, flowing from the next room of her memory. Surging. Flowing....Nothing like her scales at all. Why had she not been able to create such a masterful noise? Why?

Lily's Mother had not left her closet for a day now and was contenting herself with burrowing deep into the recesses of it. She claimed that in her memory, she'd been smacked for upsetting a carton of milk and sent to stand in a corner for fifteen minutes. She admitted, shakily, that until then, the word "fear" had been hollow to her. Now she knew true "fear"...the fear of the anguish of being smacked, that unendurable mortification and pain of being wounded by an elder.

As for her spouse? He was sprawled upon a kitchen chair in a rather despondent manner. Seemingly in his memory, the cold had heightened into severe chicken pox, where his head buzzed and he yearned to scratch feverishly but had been forbidden to by an unseen creature. The true exhaustion and discomfort had settled like a scarlet pall over him, and now even his occupation of Nurturer seemed unappealing.

Now and then, one could almost sense a tangible stirring in the atmosphere of the community. No one could distinctly pronounce the changes, but they were everywhere. In a fleeting moment, in the briefest blink, when they were most unaware. What were they? Whatever they were, most of the time they were overlooked. And the Receiver grew more and more forlorn as he mooned over his empty suggestion box.

It was a few months later, now, and Fiona felt giddy and light and relinquished by all her cares. She was almost certain she'd seen the most splendid thing in creation in her memory, a thing so great and so grand that it put all others to shame: love. She'd seen love. She'd seen love in a couple in the park as they shared a quilt against the cold. It meant something to her. So much. She observed their hazy eyes and palpitations. It was love. And an even greater revelation occurred unto her: She felt the same experiences for Asher, dear and glorious Asher.

But Asher was not to be bothered with at the present, and had not left his dwelling for a week now. He had described his anguish as "true loss." He'd lost the child he'd been watching over. In a park. He'd left the boy there for only a moment, a breathless moment when he left to drink from a fountain. When he returned, he saw another man cloaked in a beige jacket take that little boy's hand and lead him into a van and off into the day. Asher did not know what had become of him. And was certain now, he never would.

And what had become of sweet Lily? Sweet, sweet Lily who was under observation by the Receiver for pitching her bicycle into the river. Her raving justification was that not only could she not play the glorious music she ached for, but could not sing it either. Why bother living for that sort of betrayal and torture? What was the point?

Her parents had no words of rebuke for her. They were to far into the depths of their own troubles.

Then, one undistinguishable morn in some time later, Lily's Mother was seen with her hand in the suggestion box before the Annex. She called to the Receiver and informed him in a tremulous whisper that there ought to be a cemetery in replace of release. In her memory, her mother had aided her in icing the cake. And together, they'd eaten the entire confection with both hands and no utensils, together, giggling all the while. Such people should not be disposed of so readily. And right by her side, her spouse seconded the suggestion. In his own memory his father had brought him a tray of soup and had read to him a story while he ate, making no objections to reading it again and again and again for him, letting him gaze at the pictures to his heart's content.

The Receiver had beamed.

Seven years had passed since that first suggestion that encouraged many, many, many more. It was spring now, and though rather chilly it was glorious, alight with the pinks and greens of promise. 

And a strange being called a journalist had just crossed the bridge over from Elsewhere and had approached Fiona's home (not dwelling) and had asked to speak with her.

The journalist had reeled when he saw a tiny, doe-eyed child clinging to Fiona's skirt and calling her "Mama" to which she replied, "Asher, honey, run along, Mama's busy," before turning to the journalist and murmuring, "Welcome back, Jonas."

After letting him chose (which a smidge of pride) which tea bag he'd prefer, Fiona answered Jonas's inquiries, after receiving smidges of information concerning him and elsewhere. Gabriel was a flourishing student, he had a promising career, all was wonderful.

Fiona explained as much as he demanded from her. Yes, she and Asher had wed. Yes, she still worked at the House of the Old but was not also the Head of the Community's Environment and had created a garden for the Old to dwell in and visit with their loved ones. No, Asher was no longer involved with Recreation (which was now headed up by a series of different people), but the head of an adoption/foster child agency for unwanted children in "Elsewhere" (an abandoned term, now that the Atlas had been introduced to the people) to come into the community. No, Lily was not dead but would not be seen by anyone anymore, being the town recluse. She lived alone with her rage, which had elevated with her age, and was now a very sour and radical teen-ager on the outskirts of town. Yes, his parent's graveyard and memorial was stunning, especially in its sixth spring. No, the Giver was not buried there and had been released shortly after the creation of the First Suggestion, as the graveyard had been unofficially christened. He'd been cremated, due to his wishes to watch over the community even after death.

Jonas professed his love to Fiona. There'd never been another one for him in all his life. Would she come to be with him in Elsewhere? The reply was a demure but shockingly stern "no." When asked why, she became very thoughtful. The truth was, blatantly, she could not love Jonas. Ever. There was Asher, and Asher was all she wanted. And she belonged here, like Jonas belonged in Elsewhere. But where Jonas was finished creating his world, she was still creating hers. It was spring, after all, a lovely, lovely spring. And she wanted to watch the community flourish until her own winter because she loved it so. And with that, a discouraged but enlightened journalist made his way over the bridge and back on his way to Elsewhere, pausing to look back intermittently at how Fiona was right: There'd never ever been a prettier spring in all existence.


End file.
